


Arthur Goes to a Gay Bar

by PyrrhaIphis



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Gay Bar, M/M, Minor Drug Use, fantasizing lead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 01:38:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7781869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyrrhaIphis/pseuds/PyrrhaIphis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying to force himself to forget his growing obsession with Curt Wild, Arthur Stuart tries visiting a New York gay bar, looking for a distraction...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arthur Goes to a Gay Bar

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually an excised scene from my July CampNaNo work. It's no longer a part of that story, but I thought it could stand on its own, more or less.
> 
> The only important information is that when Arthur was covering President Reynolds' visit to NYC, Arthur found himself with the opportunity to ask a question of the President, and pressed so hard in opposition to a homophobic law Reynolds was supporting that Reynolds suddenly asked "Are you a fag?" Unfortunately, cameras were rolling, and that ended up on the evening news. Nationally. (Internationally, in fact...) So Arthur has gained some unwanted notoriety.
> 
> Oh, that and at this point he's run into Curt twice in the story, but not quite managed to find a way to express his feelings, and isn't even sure if he *should* express those feelings.

            Arthur had lost so much sleep that it was starting to tell on his face.  He was developing little bags under his eyes—though everyone claimed not to notice them—and he felt like the whole of his face was somehow drooping, as if it might fall right off at a moment’s notice.  Each night, as soon as Arthur had somehow managed to drop off to sleep, he was plagued by nightmares.  They tended to start out well—usually re-living that one beautiful night with Curt—but they continually descended into the most painful visions.  Sometimes it was his brother calling him ‘disgusting,’ to the amusement of all of his brother’s chums, or his father berating him for his ‘filthy’ behaviour…but mostly it was an extension of the scenario with Curt:  finished with love-making, he would turn on Arthur, reject him completely, insist that it was only the booze or the break-up that would have ever made him willing to fuck such a loser in the first place…

            No matter which way the dream turned, Arthur always woke in a cold sweat, usually less than an hour after he had fallen asleep.

            Was it any wonder that he felt as though he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks?

            He hoped it was just the exhaustion, but throughout the day, whenever he wasn’t actively involved in a conversation, Arthur found his eyes sliding shut, and his mind drifting off without his permission.  It went different places—the past of ten years ago, the past of last week, countless possible presents and futures—but it always went to Curt.

            By the end of the day, in addition to being sure he was going to lose his job, Arthur was worried that he was becoming outright obsessed.

            There wasn’t much he could do to keep his job—his boss _had_ found him seemingly napping at his desk three times, and explaining that he hadn’t been able to sleep for several days wasn’t much of an excuse—but he hoped there might be something he could do to defeat the burgeoning obsession.

            There were only two potential solutions that didn’t involve illegal narcotics, as Arthur could see it.

            The first was simpler in theory, but neither probable, practical nor even possible in reality.  Even if he knew where to find Curt, there was no chance he could actually get anywhere with him romantically, and it wouldn’t be a good idea even if he could.

            That only left the second solution.  Less certain to work, and dependent on countless outside factors, but he didn’t see much choice.  If it worked, it would solve the problem, and if it didn’t…well, at least he would have tried.  He just had to find someone willing to cooperate.  If he found one, he’d even have the bonus of getting away from the angry mutterings in the hallway for one night, since with his flat, the question “your place or mine” simply was not to be asked:  it had to be “yours” or nothing.  Before President Reynolds’ rude question had made Arthur into a national laughingstock, he would have tried to go to a bar and pick up a girl.  But now that the entire city—country—possibly even the world—thought he was gay, there wasn’t much point in trying to pick up a girl.  What girl would ever agree to sleep with a man she thought wasn’t interested in women?

            He did know where to find a gay bar, though.  He’d never been, of course, because…well, it had never seemed like a good idea before.  The world was such a different place now, and it no longer appreciated or even accepted bisexual people.  In this world, pretending to be straight seemed the better alternative.  But with that no longer an option, why not pretend to be gay instead?  At least then he might find someone to have sex with.

            After work, Arthur went back to his flat to change.  He didn’t have any of the clothes he would have worn for a night out back in the day—and most of them wouldn’t fit him anymore even if he did—but they probably weren’t the right thing to wear these days anyway.  After a moment’s thought, he decided to wear the pants that had been slightly shrunk by the cleaners, rendering them a little too tight, and a shirt that his last ex-girlfriend had picked out for him and insisted was exclusively for clubbing, though it didn’t look all that different from any other shirt in his wardrobe…except that the lapels were a bit on the large side.  To pretend that the lapels were a conscious choice, he affixed the pin Curt had given him onto one of them.  But maybe that made it worse.  He wasn’t sure…

            Once he had given up on figuring out anything better to wear, Arthur went into the bathroom to try and do _something_ about his hair.  Now that he thought about it, that woman from the TV news crew might have been right about his haircut:  it really _wasn’t_ very flattering, and there wasn’t a lot he could do about that.  Rinsing out the gel that had been holding it back along his scalp helped a bit, but it was far too short in the back and the lower sides, so that letting the rest hang loose just make it look as though he hadn’t combed it in several days.  Unless he grew out the rest, there wasn’t much of an alternative, though…

            The gay bar was located in a fairly nice area of town, but not so nice that Arthur felt out of place just walking down the street.  For some reason, the people opening the bar had decided it would be better to have the entrance on the fire escape, instead of on the street, so every patron had to climb a two-story metal staircase that shook and wobbled with every footfall and tiny breeze.  The idea of what that staircase must be like at closing time, when dozens of drunk men were trying to climb down it chilled Arthur’s blood considerably, and he swore to himself that no matter what he was _not_ going to get drunk, and he _was_ going to leave well before closing time.

            A muscular man wearing only a tank top despite the chill February air stopped Arthur at the door, politely informing him that there was a $20 cover charge to enter.  That felt a bit high, but he paid it without complaint.  What else could he do?  Just inside the door was a coat check, so he wouldn’t have to wear his heavy leather coat down among the heat of all the other men in the club.

            Heavy music pulsed through the smoky air as Arthur’s eyes began to adjust to the low light levels inside.  Most of the patrons were on the dance floor, some dancing close and intimate, others gyrating individually or in small groups.  He was no stranger to men dancing with other men—in fact, he was quite used to it—but not a single one of them was wearing glitter make-up or a frock, and very few were even wearing platform boots, so it all felt a little surreal to Arthur.

            He had a feeling that made _him_ the odd one, not _them_ , but it was hard to view it that way.

            After a moment or two of uncertainty, he headed to the bar for a drink.  The bartender looked somewhat taken aback when he just asked for a beer, but sold him one none the less.  “You don’t have to try to order something ‘normal,’” a warm voice confided from nearby—if ‘confided’ could truly apply to something said at nearly a shout in order to overcome the loud music and ambient noise.  “No one’s going to judge you for what you drink here,” the voice continued.

            Looking at the speaker, Arthur saw an absolutely enormous black man, taller than he was by nearly a foot, with a friendly smile on his face.  The man held some kind of cocktail in his hand, with a little umbrella and pineapple ring on one side.  “I just wanted a beer,” Arthur explained, though he wasn’t sure why he felt the need to explain something so basic.

            The man’s smile widened, and he shook his head.  “It’s your first time, isn’t it?”

            That sounded uncomfortably like he was asking something else entirely.  “I’ve never been here before, no,” Arthur answered.  He didn’t want any misunderstandings.

            “It’s a fine place to just relax and be yourself,” the black man assured him.

            If that was true in Arthur’s case, the music would be different, the crowd would be high, there’d be girls as well as boys, and—no, it was no place for him to be himself.  He hadn’t really felt like he was himself since before the band broke up.  He didn’t want to seem rude, though, so he smiled and nodded.  What else could he do?

            “You’ll relax more if you get out and dance,” the other man suggested, offering Arthur his hand.

            “I…I don’t think I’m ready for that, thanks,” Arthur replied, shaking his head.  He seemed like a perfectly nice man, and he wasn’t unattractive, but…

            “Well, if you change your mind, the offer’s open,” the man told him, patting him on the shoulder before heading towards the dance floor by himself.

            As Arthur looked for a place to sit to drink his beer, he was struck by the sudden realization that he didn’t actually know _how_ to pick someone up at a bar or club.  The band had picked _him_ up, he had met all three of his ex-girlfriends at work, and Curt…well…that was complicated…

            More importantly, he wasn’t sure what he was looking for.  Thinking about all the men he had ever even fancied, the only conclusion Arthur could come to was that he liked musicians.  That didn’t seem like a very helpful detail.

            Finding an empty table, he sat down, watching the bodies out on the dance floor as they ground together.  It looked more sexual—like a gigantic, clothed orgy—than it did like any dancing Arthur knew.  Though the guys in the band _had_ always laughed at what a bad dancer he was, so maybe that was his own fault.

            “Can we share your table?  The others are all taken.”

            Arthur looked up, and found a small cluster of fresh-faced young men standing near the table.  They looked like they were probably in their final years of university.  “Go ahead,” he said, not seeing how he had any right to stop them from sitting anywhere they wanted.

            They took seats on the opposite side of the table, and began to chatter among themselves, while one of them fetched out a bag of marijuana and rolling papers out of his pocket.  As he busied himself rolling a joint, one of the others glanced over at Arthur, then gasped, elbowing his nearest companion.  “Hey, you’re him—you’re the guy!” he exclaimed.  The other young men—apart from the one still fussing with the marijuana that he was inexpertly rolling—all voiced their certainty that their friend was right.

            “What guy?” Arthur asked.  He was quite sure he knew, but he didn’t want to just confirm it like that.  Actually, he didn’t want to confirm it at all, but at least _here_ it shouldn’t be a problem.

            “The one on TV!  Standing up to the President!” the young man said, his face beaming with delight.

            Arthur smiled, a bit weakly.  “I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘standing up to him,’ but yeah, that was me.”

            Genuinely excited, every one of the university boys wanted to shake his hand.  One of them even asked for his autograph, but Arthur pointed out that it would be meaningless, since no one knew his name, and he was really no one important anyway.  They all insisted on telling him their life stories, and begged to hear _his_.  He couldn’t quite face the idea of sharing any of the details they would find interesting…though after he’d had a few drags off their joint, he _did_ start to tell them a little bit about what it had been like to live with the Flaming Creatures.  The boys had never heard of the band—hardly surprising, since they’d only ever released one album, and it had never left Britain, except in Arthur’s suitcase—but they all agreed that living with a rock band must have been “awesome.”

            In a strange way, he felt like he had been transported backwards in time, into a partial reversal of his own arrival in London:  now, he was the older, experienced one, whose very existence seemed so impressive, but he was still outnumbered by the men sitting on the other side of the table, and they were still much more interested in him than he was in them.

            Perhaps the outcome would have been similar, if the music in the club hadn’t suddenly changed.

            But it did change, to a song that Arthur felt was familiar from its first chord.

            He couldn’t place it, precisely, but he recognized the style, the way in which the guitar was being played, and when the vocals started, he felt a thrill pass through him at the sound of Curt’s voice.

            The only thing that seemed odd to him was that he didn’t really know the song.  It was definitely an old one, from the ‘70s—probably the early ‘70s.  It seemed to be a love song, but the lyrics seemed a little vague, a little surreal…and not really Curt’s style.  Clearly, not one he had written himself.

            Before Arthur could carry his interior analysis of the song any further, a second voice began to sing.

            Brian’s voice.

            The thrill turned into a lump of nausea, and for a moment Arthur thought he might actually become physically ill, it hit him so hard.  The more clearly the song became a love duet, the more his hands started to tremble.

            Within thirty seconds, he was running up the stairs, headed for the door of the club.

            He had to get away.  He was going to lose his mind if he kept listening to that.

            Even after he was back outside in the cold, Arthur’s body was still shaking, and his stomach still rumbled and rebelled against him.  He grabbed the railing of the fire escape entryway for support, closing his eyes against the world.

            “This isn’t me.  I’m not like this,” he thought to himself.  He wasn’t jealous.

            “This isn’t me.  I’m not like this.”  It would be absurd to be jealous about a relationship that ended ten years ago!

            “This isn’t me.  I’m not like this.”  The affair had been over long before Arthur had ever even seen Curt in person!

            “This isn’t me!  I’m not like this!”

            Warm chuckles erupted from behind him.  Opening his eyes, Arthur turned and saw that several of the other patrons of the club were standing on the same landing he was, looking at him with sympathetic eyes.  “We all feel that way at first, my dear,” one of them said, in an affectedly feminine voice.  “You’ll get used to it.”

            “What?”  How long had he been speaking his thoughts aloud?  “No, I didn’t mean—”

            The other patrons just chuckled, and went inside.

            For a few uncertain seconds, Arthur still wasn’t sure what to do or think.  Then the wind blew and he realized that he was outside without his coat, and it really was still quite cold.  He headed back inside, but the bouncer set a hand on his shoulder.  “Sorry,” he said.  “You can’t come back in without paying again.”

            “But I was just—I was right here the whole time!”

            “You didn’t have your  hand stamped, so you can’t come back in without paying again.  If I bend the rules even once, I’ll lose my job,” the bouncer told him.  He really did sound sympathetic.  Sympathetic, but entirely inflexible, and definitely capable of breaking Arthur in half if he wanted to.

            “At least let me go as far in as the coat check,” Arthur begged.  “It’s freezing out here, and I can’t afford a new coat.”  He hadn’t really been able to afford the one he had, in all truth.

            The bouncer shook his head sadly.  Arthur was still arguing with him about it when the boys he had been sitting with came up the stairs, huffing and puffing for breath.  Arthur explained the situation about the bouncer, and the boys looked distressed.

            “Why did you leave, anyway?” the one who had provided the joint asked.  “Was that my fault?”

            Arthur cleared his throat uncomfortably.  He didn’t like to let the boy blame himself, but to admit to jealousy over a relationship that had ended when these boys were still in short pants…?  “It’s been a long time since I…partook…” he said, uncomfortably, not wanting to get them in trouble over the marijuana.  “I should have known better.”

            All of them looked concerned, and seemed about to offer to leave with him.

            “Could one of you get my coat out of the check?” Arthur asked, fetching his ticket out of his pocket.  “I think I need to go home and lie down, but…”

            One of the young men grabbed the claim slip, and ran off with it, returning with Arthur’s jacket a few minutes later.  He thanked them, put the coat back on, and headed back towards the subway station.

            It wasn’t because of the marijuana, but he really did feel like he needed to lie down.  Possibly with a strong sleeping pill, to make sure he actually got some rest.

            The subway was nearly deserted as Arthur headed back to his tiny little flat, and did nothing to distract him.  He tried to concentrate on whether or not he even _had_ any sleeping pills, but on thinking about it came to the sombre realisation that having a sleeping pill on top of beer and marijuana was probably not a very safe proposition.

            Once he was back home, Arthur took out his record player, and pulled out one of the more recent albums in his meagre collection:  “The Best of Curt Wild.”  It had been released about two years ago, in a fairly limited run.  At the time, he had largely bought it for the first few tracks on Side A of the first record, which were from the earliest days of Curt’s career, when he was barely more than an amateur.  After listening to it a few times, though, Arthur had come to appreciate the second record far more:  everything on it was a live recording, and Curt’s performances were always so much more excited in the live versions.  The songs on Side B had all been recorded at live performances in New York, most of them after 1978.  But right now Arthur put on Side A, and carefully moved the needle to the song he wanted.

            “Gimme Danger” started playing almost immediately, and Arthur turned up the volume as far as he felt he could without waking the neighbours.

            Like any live recording, the cheers of the audience sometimes detracted from the music, but in this case that was a blessing.  Arthur sat down on his puny bed and shut his eyes, remembering every moment of that performance.  The way he had stared, transfixed by the heat in his veins, wanting nothing but to get closer, yet knowing that he couldn’t.  Curt had been far more distraught than the sound itself let on.  The recording couldn’t capture the sound of his skin being ripped as Curt ran his fingernails across his bare chest.  But the scratches had still been there, bright red against the pale flesh, when Arthur had joined him on the roof.

            As the song ended and the record moved on to the next piece, Arthur’s mind fast-forwarded past the rest of the concert, past watching—stalking—Curt for so long before he finally noticed.  Past the excited, nervous thrill of coming out under the night sky and realizing that the two of them were completely and utterly alone.

            Surrendering himself entirely to the memories, Arthur was swept away by the feeling of Curt’s hands playing across his chest, of Curt’s hips driving up against his body…

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding the work this is a deleted scene from...I'm not sure if I'm even going to fix it up to release it. Curt--and Arthur, to a lesser extent--keeps going OoC, and it's crawling with a zillion OCs because it's mostly about politics, and the movie didn't provide many other characters to cover the story I wanted to tell.
> 
> Oh, and it's currently about 155k. Which makes the re-write rather daunting. And I fear no one would ever embark to read such a bloated monstrosity.
> 
> BTW, I've run the spellcheck set to UK English, since it's Arthur's POV, but (as I'm an American) there are probably all kinds of inappropriate Americanisms in the text itself. Please let me know if there are, so I can fix them! :D


End file.
